


Chasing Glory

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Bodyswap, F/F, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 03:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7418863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chase and Glory swap bodies for a mission, then spend time getting to know these new bodies. ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing Glory

**Author's Note:**

> I headcanon Chase is trans (since we never see a female Courser before her) but in a world with weird and wacky medicine and all sorts of surgical options available, even in the post-apocalypse, Chase had surgery shortly after escaping the Institute. Not that it's very important/relevant to this fic, but there are some small nods. :)

Chase thins her lips, unlit cigarette dangling from one hand. “I don’t feel comfortable asking you to be bait.” Words clipped, shoulders squared. Boots rooted firm in the broken asphalt outside Goodneighbor.

Glory’s worked enough ops to recognize that stubbornness, the same kind that’s clenched down in her core. “Yeah, so _I_ won’t be bait. Just my body. Great.” Glory rolls her eyes, tossing her head with a practiced flip of her silvery hair. “I don’t see why you’re so sure they’ll go for _me_.”

“They trained us to attack the weaker target first.” Chase winces as soon as the words cross her lips, even before Glory unleashes a withering glare. She stumbles on, grimacing. “Injure, not kill-- and use that to lure out the intended target.”

Glory pulls her lips back, baring her teeth in something half-feral, and all-wild. “See, there you go. Saying shit again.”

Chase sighs, and Glory reads the tension in her shoulders, the forced relaxation as the other woman-- the other synth, the former Courser, and even now Glory wonders about the limits of free will versus personal programming, how much she can even really trust this woman, this Institute-made tool, without the blind trust that could destroy their organization or without the hypocrisy that Glory is all-too-aware of-- unclenches her fists, fingers dangling as her hands drop to her side. “Just saying what they’ll think. Because I did their training, I know what they think-- what they’ve been taught to think.”

“Would you still accept my help if we didn’t switch bodies?” Glory asks, unbuttoning a heavy pocket on her coat and slipping her hand in, palming her the lighter. Cool in her grip, metal biting her thumb. The little bit of movement masking how she watches for Chase’s reaction.

Chase freezes-- not a lot, barely a fraction of a blink, but Glory catches it.

Glory rolls her eyes. “Martyr complex. Fine. I’m in.” Pulls out the dented lighter and a pack of cigarettes. Sets the filter to her lip and lights it with one flick. Takes a long drag, smoke twining serpentine in the still air. “Last chance for a smoke? Dr Amari doesn’t like us smoking in the clinic.”

Two breaths of hesitation, and Chase leans in.

Glory cups her hand around Chase’s cigarette, palms brushing the other woman’s wrist, and lights it for her.

. . .

Glory comes back to consciousness with a strange and unsettled familiarity, like wearing new clothes for the first time, or an unfamiliar pair of shoes. So much the same in the broad sense-- colors haven’t changed, the room hasn’t changed-- but the knit of her own skin and sinew off-kilter, the dizzyingly altered vantage from being a few inches shorter than she was in her own body. Rising to her feet and feeling the subtle shift of her center of gravity, the difference in distance when she takes one hesitant step.

Mostly though, it’s a shock to look down at ‘her’ hands-- Chase’s hands-- and see how _pale_ they are, even before noticing the subtle differences in palm callus and scarring, the way Chase keeps her nails clipped short and smooth compared the ragged-gnawed bites that Glory does on her own.

Cancel that thought-- it’s even more of a shock to look over and see her _own_ face, her own body, standing strange and awkward as if a stranger is in it. Because it is really-- Chase wearing her new flesh-chassis with as much strange wonder as Glory wears hers.

“How do you feel?” Dr Amari asks, a professional warmth as she picks a pencil from behind her ear and instructs Glory-in-Chase’s-body to follow it with her eyes.

Glory flexes her-- Chase’s-- hands and tracks the pencil without moving her head. Resists the urge to swallow, to crack her jaw and figure out the spacing of this new body, the tiny pops of synovial fluid and the new ways she inhabits the world. That will come later. “I feel alright.” Thinks about making a joke about feeling Chase, but too soon. Too much.

Chase chuckles, and says-- and god, how much of her voice is her actual _speech_ and vocal chords instead of force of habit, how much of it is trained, how much is the resonance of her own voice through her own bone, because Chase makes Glory’s voice sound higher and smoother than anything Glory can remember-- Chase says, “I’m glad to hear that.”

Would be the perfect time to make that joke, but Glory figures they can wait until they take out the Coursers. Nothing like taking down the Institute’s hit squad to break the ice.

. . .

They set up the perfect kill-zone, one of the broad streets near the Commons, the sort of place that two escaped synths might go for a casual stroll without bringing undue attention to the Railroad headquarters, where Glory still refuses to bring Chase.

Or would refuse, if Chase had asked.

(Glory is grateful she’s never asked.)

They plant frag mines in pockets of shadow and behind loose rubble, under the desiccated body of a long-dead ghoul and near overturned cars that a Courser on the hunt might use for cover. Review their route and the boobytrapped nest of alleys, the fire escapes and ladders that Glory can use to gain the high ground and drop Molotovs, set off a series of explosions that should detonate at least one of the cars. Create enough noise to entice the super mutants camped at one of the nearby high-rises, give the Coursers another side to watch as Chase slips to safety.

Glory shouts down a warning, a peace offering-- same as any other synth, they deserve a chance. Choices freely made, an opportunity to take Chase’s path or make their own.

And when they refuse and fire upon Chase-- Chase in Glory’s body, in Glory’s armored coat but with Courser-reflexes as she dives and rolls sideways, a practiced memory of muscle and movement even outside of the muscles originally trained in those movements-- Glory takes it as an opportunity to rain fire from the heavens, to shatter glass and heat down the narrow confines of the alley. To set light against the dark, to paint the darkling sky with smoke and flame.

The Coursers go down.

Chase cracks the brain casings with brutal efficiency and strips out the Courser chips, her-- Glory’s-- fingers smeared with pink fluid as she tucks them in her pocket. Then hesitates, fingers frozen as she smoothes the pocket flap, fingers over her breast. “I was planning on taking these to Faraday to decrypt, unless you’d rather…?”

“Railroad’s closer than Acadia. Give my people first crack at it, we’ll share any findings and hand it over if you’ll do the same.”

Chase smiles through Glory’s lips, a twitch of pleasure without baring her teeth. “Gladly.”

Lingering battle-rush burns through her system like whiskey and nicotine, a simmering warmth as Glory takes her to the Boylston Club near Swan’s Lake, creaks open the red door under the long-dead lamp. The club holds too many skeletons to be completely comfortable, but it's safe and easy to defend. Can set up camp amidst faded opulence, two new people of the new world, a new lease on life, ignore the bones of the long-dead.

(Glory listened to their last toast, once-- poured out a bottle of poisoned wine in disgust, the sweet-vinegar smell of it seeping into the air and soaking the carpet. To have once had so much, and then to _give up_ when it all went away. Glory had nothing and fought for everything. Even now fighting for so much less than what they once had.)

They sit together at the bar, passing a battered box of snack cakes back and forth, the powdered sugar clinging to their lips and fingers. A faintly metallic aftertaste under the lingering sweetness as Glory snaps her teeth shut through the stale pastry. It sits heavy in her gut, old habits of scarfed meals and stolen privileges, fierce with want. Better to treasure the memory of sweetness than risk it being taken away.

Chase though-- Chase eats slow and deliberate, lets the sugar melt across her tongue. Bite by bite, chewing and swallowing as if to extract every ounce of nutrition with due diligence. Like she never had to hide her privileges, earned them all. Only has to hide how much she enjoys them, her eyes--Glory’ eyes-- shut with pleasure as she licks sugar from her fingers, the white dust of powder glowing against the brown of her skin.

“You eat slow,” Glory comments, more because the silence booms than because she wants to hear her own voice. Chase’s voice, the sound still unfamiliar.

“Courser training tends to promote… discipline,” Chase says, the words treacle-slow on her tongue. One of those careful half-smiles without teeth, every gesture an act of restraint.

God, had Glory acted that way when she first came out?

(Yes. No. Maybe. Layers upon layers of programming, software and hardware and habits mired in flesh and bone and memory.)

“Still think of yourself as a weapon?” Glory asks, cutting through the fog-webs of quieter, more disconcerting questions.

A flicker of hesitation in the set of Chase’s jaw, a crease between Chase-as-Glory’s eyebrows. And one tell Chase can’t control-- the vein throbbing at Glory’s left temple. “You live surrounded by humans. I live surrounded by synths.” Words clicking down like footsteps on tile, like a line of soldiers rallied to order. “We are _not_ human, even if we deserve the same freedoms.”

“We all fight, fuck, and hurt the same,” Glory says, blunt words from Chase’s mouth. Can damn well feel it cracking her lips, salt and prayer on the back of her tongue.

Chase-as-Glory gives a startled laugh, shakes her head and raises an eyebrow. “You’ve had many human lovers?”

“A few, here and there.” Glory-as-Chase smiles in invitation, feels the pull of unfamiliar skin at the corners of her mouth, a gentle roughness on the inside of her cheek. Chase-as-Chase chews the inside of her mouth, it seems. “Interested?”

“How did you ever guess?”

“Because of how ‘discipline’ breaks my teeth but sounds so smooth when you say it,” Glory chuckles. She twists sideways on her stool, bumps her foot against Chase’s calf and hooks her toes around Chase’s ankle. Just scraping their heavy pants together, legs tingling with want and expectation. Still so weird to look into her own face, to use her own eyes as mirrors to see Chase’s face reflected back at her. Weird, but nice. “What kind of discipline are you into?”

Chase wets her lips, hesitancy written in the flutter of her lashes, the way she reaches behind to ear to tuck back hair that’s not actually there. “Orders. Spanking. Corporal punishment.” A pause, breath taut. “No talk about me being a Courser.” Licks her lips again, shoulders down with a too-casual relaxation. “No ropes or bondage on the first date. Holding down with hands is good though.”

Glory shakes her head, gnawing her lip. “It’s your kink, but _my_ body. I just can’t-- orders are okay, so I can boss you if you want, but not the other stuff. Not while we’re swapped, at least.” Chews the inside of her mouth, teeth revisiting the same rough patches that Chase must have chewed on her own. “And it’s _your_ body, really, but I don’t like visible hickeys. Keep any markings low.”

“I can do that,” Chase promises, eyes warm. Leans close, and so strange to think Glory’s really smelling _herself_ , grit and smoke, skin tangled with sweat and gunpowder. If the soul has a smell, it must be the casual coolness that Chase wears like cologne, like the grey promise of rain.

“And what else can you do?” Glory asks, so close she’s shaping kisses with questions, each syllable touching her lips to Chase’s ear.

Chase ducks her head, a smile edging around her mouth. Hands raised, hovering inches from the edge of Glory’s sleeve. “I can worship you as you deserve to be worshiped.”

“Little narcissistic, since I’m wearing your skin.”

“You shine through whatever you wear. Like the sun-- bright day or dull fog, or reflected off the moon. You’re--”

“If you say ‘glorious’ I _will_ smack you,” Glory warns, biting laughter between her teeth.

“If only I were so lucky,” Chase chuckles-- and what a strange familiarity, to _know_ that sound coming up her own throat, Glory-as-Chase’s skin throbbing in echo, but Glory laughs too and it’s amplified, magnified, bounces off the dusty wallpaper and chimes crystal against the chandelier. Lights up the room more than the chandelier’s long-gone candles, either stolen or melted to pathetic drips.

“Come on, you know this body, so give me the kind of stimulation you know it likes,” Glory growls, pushing forward and twisting her hand behind Chance’s neck, dragging Glory-as-Chase’s smooth nails down the bump of spine that Glory knows loves being touched.

Chase moans soft, shivering into Glory’s hands. Opens her mouth to press a wet kiss under the curve of Glory’s jaw, knees bumping and spilling forward, palms pressed onto Glory’s thighs and kissing like supplication, a slip of tongue and gentle suction. Stippling her with tiny kisses, tickling soft and gentle.

So gentle-- makes Glory want to go rough. Puts her thumb under Chase’s chin, closing her eyes-- because even now, it’s strange to see her own face relaxed like this, a limp and dazed contentment that Glory’s _certain_ she’s never had on her own-- as she tilts Chase’s head up, presses their mouths together in a mash of teeth and lips, gnawing down on Chase-as-Glory’s lip and squeezing close. Kisses her fierce and stolen, savors every shudder like contraband. Sharing breath, so close her heart rattles through to Chase’s ribs.

“I’m gonna sit back on one of those chairs and you’re gonna kneel in front of me and undo my pants, alright?” Waits for Chase’s answering nod-- a tiny tremble of movement, more felt than seen-- before sliding to her feet. Tugs Chase by the wrist, a half-step back at a time, thighs bumping, pulling and marveling at how _solid_ Chase-as-Glory feels.

(And maybe it’s narcissism, just like she teased Chase, but-- god, she looks _good_ in this shadow-lit room, her skin rich and dark, her hair gleaming silver, but with Chase’s lust-drunk stumble and smile, more restraint and marvel than Glory’s ever seen in the mirror.)

“Tell me what you’re gonna do, what you wanna do,” Glory orders, falling back in the high-backed chair with a heavy thump on the cushions, dust clouding around her. She closes her eyes, settles into the warmth of Chase-as-Glory’s voice and the comfortable sag of the chair.

“I am gonna kiss your belly, your thighs. Cup my hands under your legs, kiss a path down your skin-- inner thigh, hollow behind the knee. Swell of calf and down to your toes.” Words smooth as water, cool as moonlight. Every breath a benediction, warm against Glory’s skin.

Chase kneels before her, a scrape of fabric against the dust-laden carpet and strong fingers undoing the buckle on Glory-as-Chase’s belt. And Glory knows those hands, knows the off-set line of her fingers, the broken pinky that healed crooked and the thin scar that puckers the back of the hand that Chase uses to caress her. Knows those hands because they’re her own, but so strange to feel them like another’s gloves, to know every detail but not the intent as Chase slips her fingers down, between the front panels of Glory-as-Chase’s coat, unfastens the front of Glory’s trousers and tugs.

Familiar but unfamiliar-- Glory feels her own pleasure, warmth and pressure and fabric chafing her skin, but cracks her eyes open to see ‘her’ thighs pale, Chase-as-Glory’s hands dark against ‘her’ skin. Closes her eyes again to settle in her inhabited skin, hitches her hips to help Chase slide the trousers and underwear down, lets them puddle down around her ankles while Chase pulls her boots and socks off.

Chase makes good on her promises, kisses the divot of her hip and dots dry kisses down the line of muscle, trails her tongue behind the knee and breathes soft and slow, breath stirring skin with a whisper-friction of sound. Hovers her palm scant millimeters from the flesh, a static tingle as she brushes over the soft leg hair. Worship in its purest form, breath and flesh, kneeling and head bent for pleasure.

(But-- when Glory opens her eyes, it’s that unsettling disquiet in the pit of her stomach, a reflection through a warped mirror. Nice to _feel_ worshiped, but eerie to look down and see her own face in that position.)

Chase massages with small circles of her fingers, warm and gentle into the calf and down the ankle. Cups Glory’s heel in the palm of her hand, kisses the toes one by one before kneading into the center of the sole.

“Like footrubs, hm?” Glory asks, rolling her ankle and wriggling her toes. Luxuriating in it, like a cat in a sunbeam. Never paid much attention to her own feet before-- knows the subtle difference in weight, center of gravity when she walks in Chase’s body, but sitting down to be pampered like this diminishes those differences. Now, it’s just sensation-- warm hands, pressure, relaxing muscle and tiny pops of tension.

Chase chuckles, breath warm on Glory’s foot. “Giving them, yes. It’s a type of service.”

“And here I thought you were going to give me what your _body_ wanted,” Glory says, rolling her eyes and attempting to scowl. Can’t stop the upward tug of her lips though.

“My _body_ likes oral sex and multiple orgasms,” Chase says with a smile. And Glory knows it’s her own face, really, so is struck by how young she looks when Chase-as-Glory smiles, even with the fine lines around her eyes and the deep creases edging her cheeks.

“And _I_ like oral sex and orgasms, so that’s a good match.” Glory lifts her foot from Chase’s hands, hooking her heel over Chase’s shoulder and spreading her thighs. Bare ass on the back of the long coat, just a thin barrier between her and the dirt-laden seat, yeah, and maybe that’s part of the thrill-- the filth, the dirt, the realness. The grit ground on one another, such a far cry from the Institute’s sterile confines.

Chase knows her own body-- and it’s an eerie ghost-overlay of memories and reactions, because Glory knows her own body too, knows how nice it feels to have her labia tugged open and a warm tongue slicking down her folds, but Glory-as-Chase’s clit is less sensitive than Glory-as-Glory’s, every warm swirl of Chase-as-Glory’s tongue harder than expected, but feeling just right, mouth firm on Glory’s cunt and moving in waves, an ebb and flow of pressure and then a startle of hard suction, lips pulled over teeth to blunt the edges as Chase nibbles on the clit. A cymbal-crash of sensation, and her body is water, her body is salt, her body is the moon in tidal rhythm--

And she bites her lip, tastes salt and tears as she comes hard over Chase’s mouth, back arching and biting her palm to stay quiet, a harsh grunt escaping as her calves clench, unclench. Painful, a near-cramp as she forces herself to relax.

Chase kisses her thigh, looks up with a smug smile. One eyebrow slightly raised, an insufferably cocky look even if that _is_ Glory’s own face.

“Don’t get too proud now. Promised me _multiple_ , and that was just one,” Glory warns.

Chase nods, mouth smeared slick and shining. Licks her lips and leans in, lapping in broad swirls, tongue occasionally slipping into Glory. 

A few teasing strokes, more promise than pressure before Glory growls, “Don’t tease like that. Gimme a finger.”

Chase pauses, cheek resting against Glory’s thigh. “I normally don’t…”

“Maybe you think your body doesn’t like it, but my mind knows _I_ like it. Try?” And Glory’s breath whooshes out of her, a shuttered rush as she opens her eyes and looks down at that eerie Chase-as-Glory between her legs and the strangeness of seeing her own body. “If you’re okay with it, I mean. Your body, after all.”

A crescent-moon smile as Chase sits up. Keeps her eyes open, challenging even as she locks her gaze with Glory and opens her mouth, licking her fingertips and sucking down to the joint. Another long lap of tongue, swirling the pad, and Chase sets her finger in Glory’s folds. Not directly on the clit, no-- that would be too cruel, instead a tug of labia as she slides down, slips inside and crooks up.

Glory hisses, arching into the motion and trembling, aching with the effort it takes not to clamp her knees around Chase. With Chase inside her, mouth on her, it feels like a merging, a blurring of boundaries between their synth shells-- as close to a direct neural connection as they can get in these clumsy third gen chassis, but who else can claim to know their lover from inside their own skin? Glory in Chase’s body, Chase-as-Glory with her body inside Glory-as-Chase, an endless ripple of space and who inhabits who at any given moment. Immortal consciousness in slowly obsoleting frames, but when she peaks, climbs, comes--

In orgasm, she is deathless.

And then there is no space for words or thought at all. 

. . .

“Two, three, four,” Glory mumbles, lolling so her head rests against the back of the chair. Cooling sweat trickles down her spine, sticks her shirt to her skin.

Chase laughs, her forearms propped on Glory’s thighs as she rests her hands against Glory’s belly. “Five.” Her laughter trembles through her shoulders and arms, sends soft tremors through Glory’s flesh.

“Maybe. No more than six. _Maybe_ ,” Glory hastens to add, mock-scowling at Chase’s smug grin. “Or I wouldn’t be awake.”

Chase shrugs, carefully artless. A too-innocent twinkle in her eye before she admits, “Need a vibe to get that many.” Chuckles ruefully. “And then I’m not walking anywhere.” A pause and a reminiscent wince. “And my clit’s raw.”

“‘Swhat lube is for,” Glory says mercilessly.

Chase rolls her eyes, and that expression-- eyebrows high, mouth quirked down-- is so absolutely _Chase_ that it’s easy to forget she’s wearing Glory’s face. “Okay, not raw. Throbbing. Not chafed, just over-stimulated.”

“Mm. Speaking of stimulation, would you like to…?” Glory lets her voice trail, tilting her head so she can watch Chase through slitted eyes.

Chase shrugs, lifts her lips, parts them in a soft smile. “I’m fine. Feels real good just pleasing you.” Touches her thumb against Glory’s heel, draws a smooth line up the inner arch of the foot and to the toe. Pride, even kneeling and head tilted like picture-book humility.

Glory snorts, slapping her palm against the armrest. “Pfft, not altruism. I want _you_ to know what feels good for _me_ when we’re back in our own bodies.”

“You seem pretty tired.”

“Shows you need to get in better shape,” Glory drawls, sharp-edged and lazy. “Not too tired to boss you around, if you're still into that.”

Chase chuckles, dips her head. “I’m still into that.”

“Alright. Undo your coat-- yeah, like that. Take the buckles slow, slip your hand under the shirt.” Glory sucks her teeth, watches as Chase slides her palm up the grimy undershirt, a little rustle of fabric and the material bunching. “Touch the nipple, roll it between thumb and finger. Let it bud-- and when I tell you, you’re gonna pinch. Edge of nail, let it bite.”

“Is this how you touch yourself?” Chase asks, hissing past clenched teeth as she obeys. Thighs trembling, ass hovering above her heels as she kneels. Not quite sitting, not quite rising. An in-between position that can shift, tilt at a moment’s notice. Except it’s a measure of her control, conditioning even outside her on body.

“When I’m in the mood. I like it fast, hard, rough-- one orgasm’s good, gets me fuck-happy and relaxed.” Glory raises a hand, scratches her nails rough through her-- Chase’s, really-- hair, enjoying the unfamiliar texture and hint of shampoo. Aster and sage, sweet and earthy. “Multiples aren’t so much my thing. Still fun.”

“One way to enjoyment,” Chase agrees, amiable but for the sharp intake of breath as Glory points, finger outstretched and directing her to pinch the other nipple. “Weren’t always my thing either.”

“What changed?”

Chase-as-Glory laughs, tilts her head so her hair falls over her eyes in a silver scrim. “My body. When I left the Institute, I looked-- considerably different. Changing bodies was a homecoming.”

“Fair,” Glory acknowledges. Gnaws her lower lip, a shred of skin coming loose. Bites it clean. Tastes of sweet balm and beeswax, something faintly green and medicinal. “Stroke down, palms flat over your belly-- undo the pants, yeah, like that,” she commands, over the soft jingle of rattling metal and fabric. “Suck your finger, get it nice and wet.” Laughs, curling her index and middle fingers up in lazy mimicry of a salute. “Two fingers, why not.”

Chase grins, sliding her fingers into her mouth. A swirl of tongue peeking out past her lips, then down to the knuckle. Palm curled over her chin, an almost lady-like moue but for the crinkle of amusement around her eyes. A wet suck, lips on skin, and she pulls her fingers out with an audible pop. “And what should I do with these fingers?”

“Rub a circle over the clit,” Glory orders, chuckling as Chase’s eyes flutter shut with a hopeful moan. “Small, tight-- keep it focused. Just a warm-up though. When you think you wanna come, rub up and down.” Laughs, leaning forward and crossing her ankles. “Fuck, that’s gonna be murder on your-- my-- wrist. Use your forearm and shoulder if you gotta-- yeah, like that.” And it’s like watching through a strange mirror, sitting outside her own body and watching the tremors rocking her form, the sweat beading on her hairline. Knowing the intimate feel of the slickness between her folds, the smear of fluid down her thighs, smelling the warm musk and faint acidity of her own arousal. But it’s not her, not this time-- it’s Chase wearing that skin, feeling the rush of blood, dizzy and flushed, the swelling of her lower lips and the way her shoulders drag beneath the weight of the armored coat, overheated, sweat heavy beneath the jacket.

Glory licks her lips, lets the want seep into her voice. “Tell me how it feels. What feels different for you, instead of when you’re in your own body.”

Chase groans, low and throaty. “Your tits are bigger than mine, for a start.”

“Does that actually change how you feel?”

“Nah-- not better, not worse. Just different.” Chase shivers, body rocking forward, her toes digging into the floor as she tilts herself on her feet. “And your fingers are longer, your palms rougher. Not better, not worse.”

“Just different,” Glory echoes.

“Yeah-- but what does feel better is knowing you’re watching. That you know what’s happening to me, in me.” Her shoulders shake, a suppressed vibration like a spring under pressure, like potential waiting to be unleashed. “There’s nothing I can hide, nothing you don’t already know or can’t guess.”

Glory rolls a shoulder back, scratches it against her cheek. Thinks about all the small wonders already discovered, the way Chase wears her skin and makes it glow new again. “Not quite. Still learning things-- dunno if it’s your body, or maybe just how new everything is. Like-- sensory processing. Everything smells new to me. Musk, dust, furniture polish.” Hardware or software limitations, filtering the familiar through unfamiliar haptic feedback. “Not better or worse. But different.” She leans forward, cups her fingers under Chase’s chin, framing the pulse of the throat. Feels her own heartbeat, the throbbing iambic pentameter of their existence. All words strung new between them, translated through foreign dictionaries and back to body-English.

“Talk to me,” Chase breathes, hoarse with want. Eyes shut, dark lashes casting shadows over her skin.

“Come for me, Chase. Come hard and loud as you fucking want. We’re gonna rock the earth and heavens too,” Glory promises, hand under Chase-as-Glory’s chin and scratching behind the ear, a soft circle of nail against skin, the way she knows she likes to be touched, affectionate and soothing in equal measures as Chase rubs hard, hard, harder, like she might just shake herself apart as she slumps forward, face against Glory’s legs and moaning into her flesh, a wet and crying sound as she clenches, squeezes, sharp chin jutting into the meat of the thigh and finally collapsing after a shuddering climax.

Glory pets, soothes. Whispers the words more gentle than her hands, brushing down Chase’s back with long strokes and murmuring praise. “Good girl, good girl,” makes Chase exhale long and warm, like a breath she’s been holding for far too long. “You’re beautiful,” makes Chase roll her head, hiding the half-crescent of her smile against the chair cushion. And “that was wonderful,” makes her melt, boneless and content. Lets her stay in that moment for a little longer, lets them daydream that this moment is eternal and endless. Let the dust settle over them like a blanket, hidden from the rest of the Institute’s bullshit.

But that dances too close to the club’s last toast, the poisoned wine and the fear of new tomorrows. So Glory takes Chase’s hands in her own, kisses the backs of the knuckles and pulls her up. “Share the couch?”

“I’d be disappointed if we didn’t,” Chase laughs, a little too loud to hide that glimmer of fear, and Glory knows this too-- close as her own body, her own lungs, that clawing fear of ever being truly alone, going from the Institute’s group dormitories to the shared confines of the Railroad. For all that Coursers may have been expected to perform solo operations, they were never truly alone either.

But Chase is not a Courser.

And Glory is no longer the Institute’s.

For tonight, they are each other's, Chase-as-Glory tucking herself sideways, sprawled over Glory-as-Chase’s lap and with one hand dangling over the edge of the couch, Glory leaning back against the couch with her arm slung over the back, head tilted forward so her dark hair skims Chase’s cheek. Angles and spaces learning new ways to fit, bodies a new puzzle of affection and friction.

Chase is an Acadian leader.

And Glory is a Railroad heavy.

For tonight, they are both free.


End file.
